Hello. I think about two weeks ago, I said I quit. Day after that I had an idea for a fan-fiction for the Fallout Series. Anywho, I'm not one to keep this kind of stuff to myself. I don't have a name for it yet, but I hope ya'll enojy it anyways.

Part 1 Envoys to the East

Approximately three days walk from New Vegas

In the burning heat of the desert, Private Williams hefted his Service Rifle higher. The heavy armor on his chest felt like it was pressing down on his lungs, making each breath of hot air feel like a strain. While his uniform was supposed to assist with the heat, the only thing he could imagine removing the sweaty burden of sauna-like air that enveloped him was several hours lying under a shady tree, sipping a glass of ice-cold scotch. Williams stopped marching for a moment to pull on the collar of his fatigues. While the movement let a brief whisper of cool air slip into the pocket of warm air, it did little to actually cool his body. “Sergeant,” the private called. As he did, he turned to look at the caravan behind him. Four Brahmin, each loaded to the sky with valuables, one in particular carrying a hefty supply of water bags, as well as three caravan drivers and their mercenaries, leading the creatures met his gaze. Off to the side of the road another private in the same brown armor stopped for a moment to look at Williams, while on the opposite side of the road another soldier did the same. All three bore a golden design on their chest-plates: a two-headed bear reaching for a star, the symbol of the New Republic of California.

In the wake of the nuclear holocaust many of the survivors had turned to the fast forming faction in the west, trading various freedoms for the security and protection of the N.C.R. What had begun as only a small town had quickly turned into all but an empire, a union of thousands, a democracy formed from the ashes of the American Empire. As the New Republic of California had spread west it had encountered its two greatest potential enemies: Cesar’s Legion and New Vegas. While New Vegas had originally been hoped to merely become an annexed state of the N.C.R., Cesar’s Legion was a scourge, an ever expanding plague that had threatened to consume both the Mojave Wasteland and the New California Republic in one fell swoop. The soldiers of the N.C.R. found themselves on the front lines of an escalating conflict between the aspiring Legion and the Mojave Wasteland itself. Despite that both sides were virtually equal in numbers, with the N.C.R.’s vast supply of troops available from the west coast; the New California Republic held a powerful advantage in terms of technology. However, what the Legion lacked in firepower it made up for in discipline and military leadership. Cesar himself was a brilliant tactician, and inspired zealotry in his soldiers that allowed him to conquer the hundreds of tribes that he had. In the end it had boiled down to a stalemate along the Colorado River, a stalemate that had focused on the Hoover Dam in particular.

As with all conflicts, neither side’s plans came to fruition the way they had hoped. Mr. House, the autocratic ruler of New Vegas had thrown down a wildcard: a courier. This one person had gone on to change the face of the Mojave, accomplishing in a matter of weeks what neither the Legion, nor the N.C.R. or even Mr. House himself had managed to do in years. This lone courier had brought forth a weapon of unimaginable destruction. All but buried beneath the fortress Cesar had claimed on the east side of the Colorado River an army of mechanical soldiers waited, sleeping, anticipating the arrival of their orders to come forth and conquer the wastes. Once the courier had secured the army, Mr. House set his sights on the Hoover Dam, and, with the courier’s help, defeated both the NCR and the Legion, letting loose the powerful automatons and gaining both independence from foreign factions and securing the Mojave Wasteland in one brilliant move.

While the Legion had been crippled, its leader dead and its army scattered, the N.C.R. had left the Mojave Wasteland in slighter better condition. Though one of their leaders, General Oliver a man who was loved by the public and hated by those under his command, was killed in the battle the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the New California Republic licked its wounds and soon returned to the Mojave Wasteland. Just a short time after the battle, President Kimble was impeached, many calling the entire fiasco, “his war,” and a new president was elected into office. The newly elected President Catharine Vienna marked a change in the N.C.R.’s policies. Rather than,”… seeking to expand through conquest and military action, [the New California Republic] should seek to consolidate [its] power from within, while seeking allies from beyond [its] borders,” President Vienna was often quoted. “Military action should be our final resort, not our first, if we are to create a sound and just republic.” With those words, Vienna created a new N.C.R. from Kimble’s ruined career. The newly elected president negotiated with Mr. House to allow for a single military installment to remain near the New Vegas Strip in order for the New California Republic to send its envoys further east.

And that is why I’m out here roasting under this burning hot ass sun, Private Williams thought as he looked for his sergeant. After a moment the man in question appeared from behind the Brahmin at the rear of the caravan. He didn’t say anything, merely inclining his head to ask the unspoken question. “Is there something I’m supposed to be looking for up here?” Williams asked hearing the wine in his tone of voice and not caring in the slightest. He’d fought at Camp Forlorn Hope for two years, been with the other soldiers who’d taken that long journey back to the Mojave Outpost, their heads low, tails between their legs. Now he was one of Vienna’s “envoys,” wandering around east of the Colorado River, north of Legion territory, trying to find some sign of civilization.

“Oh for God’s sakes,” Private Linton swore from the side of the road. “I’ll take point Sergeant.” While the sergeant rolled his eyes, Linton marched forward to glare at Williams. While that was not what he’d been hoping for Williams was glad to let her have point. In the split second before it happened, Williams thought he might have heard a distinctive buzz, a whispering hum that split the air. Williams recognized the noise from his time dealing with Cesar’s Legion. Some of their raiding parties had carried firearms with them. The bullet rattling through the air would give off an angry hiss as it slipped past a soldier’s ear. Then the round slammed into his chest-plate with enough force to knock him off his feet.

The caravan was suddenly alive with automatic gunfire. Despite his previous combat experience, this was William’s first time of actually being hit by a bullet. Though the round had failed to penetrate the plate steel over his chest it felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his ribcage. From the ground he could see Linton sounding off with her Marksmen Carbine. Some part of his addled mind suddenly imagined his sergeant shouting at him for lying down on the job, and with a groan, Williams brought himself to a sitting position. From there he aimed at the muzzle flashed that came from beyond the road.

In retrospect he should have been more alert to an ambush at this spot. While one side of the ruined street offered only a view of a long track of empty desert, the opposite had a shallow ridge, like a miniature mesa sprouting from the rocky badlands. Of course there had been dozens of these on their trek east. With the Rockies looming to the north, or to their left, the flat ground was spotted with outcroppings such as the one they were being ambushed from. The Service Rifle kicked into his shoulder with a heavy thump as he put four rounds downrange. Each time the shot went wide of the target to send a plume of dust into the air and leave the intended target unharmed. “Sergeant!” Williams called again, this time a notable tone of urgency in his voice. When there was no immediate response Williams turned to look at the rear of the caravan. The reason behind his sergeant’s silence was obvious: the man had his brains scattered across the dry pavement. Williams swallowed a lump of fear that suddenly clamped down on his trachea before hobbling to his feet. “Get behind the Brahmin!” The private fired another round before putting a solid four-hundred pounds of Brahmin meat between him and the muzzle flashes. As he did, he could see the mercenaries ignore him, and continue to fire on the ridge with their pistols. Of course if his rifle couldn’t hit the attackers there was no chance their dinky little 9mms could. “Get behind the [censored] Brahmin!” As though to punctuate his exclamation a burst of rounds slammed into a mercenary sending a spray of red mist into the air as the woman fell to the ground.

Private Linton scrambled behind Williams’s Brahmin as a round ripped through one of the beast’s necks. The wounded animal fell to the ground, creating a makeshift barrier made of animal carcass. The two remaining caravan drivers and one mercenary followed suit and ducked behind their pack animals. Private Meyers, the other N.C.R. propped his Assault Carbine over the edge of the Brahmin loaded with water and let out a small burst. Despite how good it sounded to have some automatic gunfire that was outgoing, Williams knew that they didn’t have the firepower to hold off this assault for much longer. That was the problem with ambushes, there was no way to prepare for them properly.

As Meyers ducked back behind the Brahmin a stich of gunfire wove across the water-bearing Brahmin, splitting two of the water sacks open. In response Linton pushed her rifle over the end of the Brahmin and fired one shot. Just over one of the spots where muzzle flashes had been prominent there was a spray of red. “Nice shot,” Williams muttered, lifting his Service Rifle to his shoulder. At the rear end of the caravan someone was shouting what sounded like a fierce war cry. A man rounded one of the fallen Brahmins, a machete in hand and rushing toward Meyer’s unprotected back. Williams fired, the first shot slamming into the man’s shoulder. There was another spray of blood, but the man continued to charge until Williams put another round into his chest and a third into the man’s neck. Meyers nodded in appreciation before firing another burst over the water-bearing Brahmin.

“Help me get this thing off, would you?” Williams asked Linton, pulling at his chest-plate. Where the bullet had struck there was an indentation that, in turn, pressed into his ribs. Kneeling next to him, Linton fumbled with the clasps that held the ruined armor in place. As though he’d been waiting for them to be otherwise occupied, another attacker suddenly rushed toward them, screaming. As Williams reached for his rifle, the marauder kicked off of the dead Brahmin and came flying through the air, aiming his entire body toward the two N.C.R. soldiers. Just as abruptly as the ambush had begun, just as swiftly and violently as the caravan drivers and their mercenaries had been cut down, the attacker was thrown off course like he’d been kicked by a Brahmin.

With a spurt of blood and grey matter the assailant’s head disappeared, and he went tumbling to the ground. Only a breath later a booming gunshot thundered across the battlefield. Williams turned to look over the Brahmin corpse as more thunderous gunshots filled the air. At first he didn’t know what to make of the newcomers. They had the wide brimmed hats and weapons that matched the Ranger’s “cowboy” style. However they wore strange, leather, double briasted jackets that seemed almost like uniforms. Despite their obvious lack of heavy armor the newcomers showed no fear as they attacked the others, raining down a hail of death with devastating accuracy.


Tell me what you think.

Whoah. Epic.

Thank you.

Very well done. Good description, a stable plot, and beautiful progression lead me to believe this can be a very successful fan fiction.

Part 2: The People’s Federation of Texas

“Hey!” one of the newcomers shouted after the last shot had been fired. Williams didn’t feel like moving out from behind the dead Brahmin, just in case the newcomers had the same intention as the first group had: slaughtering the caravan. “Ya’ll, hiding behind the dead steers, come out with your hands in the air, or we will open fire.” Williams fumbled with his knife for a moment before he could slip the blade beneath the shoulder strap holding his armor to his chest. Once it and its partner on his opposite shoulder were cut, the blinding pressure that had been pressing against his ribs was finally relieved. Another swift cut and the chest plate fell away. “I see hands on guns, I will start shooting.” As Williams looked to his broken armor, then to the caravan drivers, Meyers and finally Linton, all of them crouching behind the dead Brahmin, pretending that they could fight against these newcomers, he realized his only option.

With a grunt Williams threw his Service Rifle over the Brahmin corpse. Hands first, the private moved out from behind his cover. As he did, he noticed a newcomer standing off to the side of the rest of them. Unlike the others, who all held either short-barreled rifles and repeaters or revolvers, this man was clutching a massive, scoped rifle against his chest. Williams recognized the man as the sniper responsible for downing the attacker earlier. His time at Camp Forlorn Hope had been spent side by side with the 1st Recon, a sniper group. The talks he’d had with them, had taught him exactly how difficult shooting a moving target was, not to mention putting a round through a man’s skull as he flung himself through the air. Looking at the man, Williams understood just how screwed they would be if this new group decided to become hostile.

“Where are the rest of ya’ll at?” the man shouted. William had never heard an accent like his before, a draw in the man’s voice. Williams directed a reproachful glare at Linton and Meyers, something that said, “Why the hell did you let me walk out here by myself?” After a short pause, Linton sneered before throwing her carbine to the ground. Meyers sighed and followed suit as the two of them rose to stand over the Brahmin corpses. With the soldiers and the caravan drivers in the open the newcomers seemed to relax, if only slightly. The man who’d been speaking stepped forward. He carried a short rifle, the likes of which Williams had never seen before, as well as a revolver that hung on his hip. As the man moved closer Williams noticed a thin piece of metal that was wrapped around the man’s belt, like a ribbon of steel had been tied around the leather next to the buckle. The only thing the N.C.R. soldier could conclude from this was that it was some insignia that designated rank. The ranking man bent down to retrieve Williams’s discarded armor. Staring at it, the man spit a wad of black liquid onto the road. “What the hell’s that?” He held the armor up, his thumb next to the double headed bear. “Double headed Yao Guai?” The man tossed the armor to another of those standing around the ruined caravan.

One man looked at it for a moment before shrugging and tossing it to another. “Oh,” the leather clad fighter said in recognition as he held the ruined piece of metal. “They’re Californians.” The leader of the group looked at the speaker for a moment, before returning his gaze to Williams. While his features had begun as a slightly less than friendly smirk, the man who’d ordered them to come out with their hands up, now frowned as though he were disapproving of the N.R.C. soldiers’ origin. “Ever since that Cesar bastard bit the big one, we’ve been getting the occasional trader from the west, talking about the…uh National… California something or other.”

That said he threw the armor back to his leader. The man glanced at it for a moment then gave Williams a long, studying look. Williams opened his mouth to say something, hopefully something intelligent enough to keep from getting shot, when an ear-piercing whistle cracked through the awkward silence. Both Williams and the man in front of him turned to look in the direction of the noise. The sniper, his hat off and glancing at the sky, waved, pointed to his ear, then made a small circle in the air with his finger. Although he didn’t know what was being said Williams recognized the hand signals, as military trained, and from the way the man was gesturing, it was fairly urgent.

“[censored]!” Without warning the leader of the group grabbed Williams by the sleeve and pulled him away from the Brahmin. “Get off the road!” As the N.C.R. troops, along with the caravan drivers and the mercenary made their way off the road toward where the fighters had been standing, the “cowboys” went to work on the caravan itself. They pushed whatever supplies they could over, spilling the contents into the open. Meanwhile the leader moved to the only still breathing Brahmin, the creature that had had its leg blown off by a stray bullet, and shot it through both of its skulls. The sniper ran over to their position and pushed the bodies of their former attackers off the ridge, sending them tumbling toward the road. With that done the leader of the group and his men pushed the N.C.R. under a narrow outcropping of rock. It was a small concave formation that offered just enough shelter from the sky to provide the barest illusion of shade. “Stay down and stay quiet,” the leader hissed.

As the man spoke, a new sound began to roll through the area. Williams had heard the noise only once before. While Camp Forlorn Hope had been under siege from the Legion, Williams had witnessed an otherworldly sight: a massive steel creation flying toward the dam. Williams had seen vertibirds before; the president’s own flyer had landed at a speech only a day before the attack on the dam. The monstrosity that had zipped past Camp Forlorn Hope had been something else altogether. It had been massive, less like a vertibird and more like a small building had suddenly decided to take flight. More importantly however, was the noise, like listening to a thousand Cazadors beat their wings all at once. What echoed through the battle zone at the moment was similar if quieter, but identical in every other way.
Poking his head out from the shelter, Williams found the source of the racket. Over the scene of carnage a small machine buzzed slowly overhead. It resembled the silver craft from the Second Battle for Hoover Dam, in shape, though it was significantly smaller. But while the flying machine from Camp Forlorn Hope had been a mystery, even from his vantage point, Williams could understand exactly what this thing had been built for. The wings, where not encompassing the large rotors that propelled it forward, were covered in armaments. Williams couldn’t identify half of what hung from the craft, but he was sure there was a pair of what looked like short range missiles affixed to either end of the wings. Next to those were what looked like oversized Plasma Castors, something he’d only seen once during training but recognizable all the same. “Get down,” The leader whispered as he pulled Williams back under the outcropping. The machine passed the destroyed caravan and began to climb higher into the air. At first the N.C.R. trooper was sure it would just disappear in the sparse clouds, but then it turned back.

Unlike its first run, the machine was coming back at a new angle. Despite that he’d never seen it before, Williams new it was coming back to destroy the caravan. Confirming his thoughts, the machine made a loud thumping noise and unleashed six shots from its under-slung plasma castors. Each cannon fired three times, sending bolts of green toward the ground. Unlike the plasma castor which merely hit its target and melted it, when these bolts hit the caravan, they detonated. There was a flash of brilliant green light and a rush of hot air before Williams found himself pressed against the rock wall. When his vision cleared he found that the caravan had disappeared, leaving behind only a scorch mark and several piles of still glowing goo.

After several moments of crouching under the overhang, hearing only the high-pitched ring of ear damage, Williams felt someone pull him out into the sunlight. His body felt numb, like he was in shock, and the afterimage of the exploding carcass of one of the pack Brahmin was still overlapping everything he observed. “What in the holy hell was that?” Williams asked, panic seeping into his voice as cold sweat began to pour down his back. This was insanity. How was he supposed to fight a machine that could fly through the air and rain death on him like that?

“Vulture,” the leader responded, spitting more black liquid to the ground. It was obvious that these men had seen one of those “Vultures,” before and didn’t feel the mind numbing terror that the N.C.R. private sensed creeping through his system. The leader turned to Williams and held out a hand. “Name’s Lieutenant James of the Third Militia Army. Those are my Roughnecks,” he said gesturing to the other men as Williams shook his hand, still numb from head to toe. “We’re part of the People’s Federation of Texas, welcome.”

“A vulture?” Linton asked. She didn’t look as shaken up as Williams felt, but her face was paler than normal, and he could see her hands shaking. “Who has technology like that?” Was she thinking the same thing he was? That whoever possessed such technology would be able to roll through whatever the N.C.R. could throw at them. Maybe House, with his new army of improved Securitrons would be able to stop them. Even then it was a question of attrition. How many Vultures did they have? How many Securitrons would need to be sacrificed to destroy one Vulture? How many towns would be turned into rubble and dust by marauding attackers from the air? Suddenly Williams’s head was filled with numbers and none of them seemed like good news. “It’s not the Enclave is it?”

A bark of laughter came from one of the Roughnecks. “No, though I gotta say I miss the Enclave these days.” The Roughneck grinned at Linton as he spoke. “No, they’d be the Templars,” he continued as they looked through the charred remains of the caravan. “They call themselves the Wastes Templar.” Williams didn’t like the way the militiaman was describing this new threat. Already the N.C.R. trooper was filled with a sense of foreboding even after only two short sentences. “Bunch of nut jobs in power armor, looking to take control of the Wasteland.” Williams felt a question come to mind. “Before you ask, no, it’s not the Brotherhood of steel. “You can thank whatever god you pray to for that. Out here it seems like the only ones who can go toe to toe with the Templar is the Flagstaff Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel.”

“Frankly, I’m glad they’re both here to beat the piss out of each other and leave us the hell alone.” Williams looked at the sniper, who received several “got that right,” and “damn straight,” from the other Roughnecks. Looking at the remains of the caravan, Williams couldn’t help but think that the Brotherhood of Steel, who had seemed almost like an unbeatable enemy back when they and the New California Republic had gone toe to toe, could stand against these Waste Templar.

I hope so. Thank you.

Great work here, my friend!

Thanks for the feedback

Part 3: Broken Treaty

Flagstaff

Marching through Flagstaff, Centurion Aquileia wore a distinctive look of disdain for every living being around him. In the two years or so since Cesar’s death the Legion had been torn apart by one civil war after another. According to the reports Aquileia received from the few Frumentarii who were still loyal to the capital, half of the Legion recruits had gone back to being independent tribes, raiding everyone who came into their territory. Aquileia had managed to consolidate a large number of the Legion simply by being the man in charge in Flagstaff when Cesar and the Legate had been killed. In those two years Aquileia had managed to keep the Legion from destroying itself, but their strength had been reduced to only a fraction of its former glory. “Sir, our outpost at Cabrera says the Habs have grown more hostile. They request reinforcements.” Aquileia ignored the Frumentarii at his side. Where was he going to find reinforcements? He barely had the soldiers to hold Flagstaff, let alone enough to send reinforcements north to deal with some tribals.

As he entered the basilica, the throne room of Cesar, wondering if he could still save the Legion from itself, the centurion found a man sitting on Cesar’s throne. He had one leg propped over one of the arm rests, and was contently smoking a cigarette. “You know, say what you will about Cesar, the man had a comfortable chair,” the stranger said calmly, as Aquileia felt the blood rise to his cheeks. Knowing that his face was probably a shade of dark red, the centurion reached for his weapon. “Relax,” the stranger said hastily as he stood. “I’ve come to discuss your treaty with us.” As the man pressed his hand against his chest, Aquileia finally recognized his uniform. The solid black, pre-war suit with a grey vest, black undershirt and white tie, made him stand out from any random Profligate who might have wondered into the basilica, but what caught Aquileia’s eye was the red-cross on the neck-tie. It was the symbol of the Waste Templar.

“According to our treaty, we provide the Legion with slaves, raw material, and gold, so that you may make your Aureus coins.” As the emissary from the Templar spoke, he continued to smoke his cigarette. “In exchange, the Legion provides us with intelligence on the tribes west of the Colorado River. You were to conquer the New California Republic, consolidating your empire all the way to the Pacific.” The longer the man went on the more strain seeped into his voice. His casual nature began to slip away as a more callous and stern presence began to surface. “You were to give us a strong ally at our western border when we marched east. You were to conduct raids against the Habs and the Brotherhood of Steel.” The Templar emissary flicked his cigarette aside as though he were taking his frustrations out on it rather than Aquileia. “You were to keep those inbred [censored]s from the People’s Federation of Texas busy with a constant threat of attack from their northwestern border.” As he finished the statement the emissary seemed to be on the edge of violence. Then he took a deep breath, sent a hand through his coal black hair and a thin smile spread over his lips. “What can you still provide?”

Aquileia could hear a roar of blood in his ears. He’d never been insulted like this man had, and never since joining the Legion had he permitted anyone to speak of it that way and live to tell about it. “Choose your next words carefully, Templar,” the centurion said dangerously. “Or I will lash you to a cross and watch you die.” All the time he’d been within the basilica Aquileia had yet to take his hand from his weapon, now he gripped it tight enough that his knuckles had turned white. What stung more than the man’s words or even his insolence, was that what he implied, that the Legion was crippled, on its last leg, barely able to hold its own borders, was true.

For a moment the emissary said nothing. Then he laughed, and though his face was split with a grin, the smile never reached his eyes, which remained cold and cruel. “That is where you’re wrong.” The calm demeanor that the Templar so casually dismissed Aquileia as a threat only served to make the centurion angrier. “Do you really think I would come here alone?”

At those words, a heavy thump shook the basilica. The building had been rebuilt to resemble the Roman basilicas, the centers of the Roman government. Within it contained pillars, made from steel rather than marble, between which were hung tapestries depicting the Golden Bull, the symbol of the Legion. Directly behind Cesar’s throne one of these tapestries hung, creating a small area that could be closed off for privacy. There was another thump and the tapestry was pulled away to reveal a hulking figure. In his time as a legionnaire, Aquileia had been on a raid against the Brotherhood of Steel. He’d fought against figures in power armor before, steel clad men and women who were all but unstoppable. The thing that approached from behind the piece of cloth made the Brotherhood of Steel armor seem like tinker toys.

It was eight feet of towering, angular, black steel that seemed to loom over the centurion. As though that weren’t intimidating enough, the hulking monstrosity was easily twice Aquileia’s width from shoulder to shoulder. In one hand it carried a heavy shield that looked like it could be raised to cover the creation from its heavily plated knees to its narrow visor. The other hand carried what almost looked like a medieval sword, except for the split that ran from the tip of the blade down to the cross-guard. The armor itself seemed absurdly dense, as though the combatant were expected to fight something with enormous firepower. The knight turned its pointed helmet to face the centurion. “Kill him,” the emissary said calmly with all the passion of a man speaking on the weather.

Trying to beat the iron clad monster before him to the punch, Aquileia drew his Gladius and held it before him. In response the knight lowered its own blade to point the split tip at the centurion’s chest. There was a plume of green, like the smoke from a revolver had turned into a bright, glowing, green gas, and a bolt of plasma slammed into Aquileia’s chest. Despite that he was wearing a heavy plated metal, which he had designed to stop energy weapons specifically; the former Legion centurion was dead before his body hit the floor. Dispassionately, the emissary lit another cigarette. As the Templar in heavy power armor stepped over the body of the now deceased centurion toward the cringing Frumentarii, the emissary removed himself from the basilica.

All of Flagstaff was being invaded by more the Templar soldiers. Another thin smile spread over the emissary’s lips. He truly admired the Crusaders, their gleaming metal exoskeletons reminding him of the knights of old. As the Crusaders marched into the city, silently herding the Legionnaires and Centurions, who, now leaderless, were unsure how to act, the emissary took another drag on his cigarette. “They are of no use to the Templar,” the emissary proclaimed, loud enough for his voice to carry into the ranks of the Legion. As he said it, vertibirds descended from the skies to allow more Crusaders to disembark and join the ranks of others in Flagstaff. “Slaughter them.” Watching as the slaughter took place, the Templar emissary noticed a distinctive rift form between the Legion recruits and their masters. The recruits faltered and ran away, as though there was some escape to be found beyond the city, while the Centurions and Legionnaires charged headlong at the Crusaders.

Once Centurion in particular, rushed forward, flinging himself into the air, aiming his body like a projectile at the nearest Crusader. With more speed than the bulky armor would seem to allow, the Crusader turned, and smashed his shield into the Centurion’s legs. As the Centurion tumbled to the ground, the Crusader rammed his sword into the former Legion fighter’s chest. Despite that the fallen Centurion was obviously already dead; the Templar then sent a plasma bolt into his body. There was a splash of green, and all that remained was a small pile of glowing green, gelatinous liquid. With another sallow smile, the Templar emissary boarded one of the waiting vertibirds and took his leave.

Still looking good. Keep it up.

I really like it, it's really interesting

I've thought of a name, now how do I change the title of the thread?

PM One of your friendly moderators and ask nicely for a title change, there the guys with the green names

Also, nice story. I've been reading it but only usually comment when I have something constructive to say rather than the mundane good jobs, but... Good Job

Thanks for the help. And don't downplay the mundane. It's how I know people are interested.

Excellent and entertaining, I await the next chapter eagerly.

Thanks to Rough, Yttrium, The Happy Xivilai, reidster338, Your mom=My brother and Bazz22 for your help and support.

Part 4: Road to Flagstaff

Approximately six days walk from New Vegas

While they had lost their entire caravan and their sergeant, not to mention several civilians, Williams felt confident that they could still accomplish, in spirit as least, their mission. In the time since the ambush, Williams and the others from the N.C.R. had gotten to know the Roughnecks, and, in his mind, they were soldiers, just six soldiers on patrol in the desert. They didn’t have the discipline of the New California Republic’s army, but they were definitely soldiers, fighting from some figurehead a thousand miles away, who had no idea what fighting on the front lines was like. In fact, the more time Williams spent with James and his Roughnecks the more he thought that, maybe, just maybe, the People’s Federation of Texas was a little more friendly to its grunts in the field.

As they marched closer to what James called the Sixty-Six outpost, Williams grilled the Roughnecks’ sniper, Charley, about the locals. “Who were those jackasses who attacked us on the road? Banditos?” Each of the Roughnecks had a story about the Banditos and none of them were very pleasant. According to the Roughnecks, the Banditos had originated from somewhere in the south and had since been a never ending source of misery for traders and soldier of the P.F.T. alike.

“No,” Charley responded with a laugh. As they walked, Williams could see a small shack at what looked like an intersection between two roads. “If it had been Banditos, we wouldn’t have gotten there in time.” Williams remembered the story Charley had told him the night before. He and the Roughnecks had gotten to a Bandito slave camp in time to mount a raid against the gang of lunatics. At first the Roughnecks’ ambush had gone according to plan and within a few moments more than a dozen of the Banditos were dead on the ground. Then, even as they were still being slaughtered, the thugs had changed tactics.

Rather than attack the Roughnecks, they went to the slaves and started massacring them. Because of the risk, the Roughnecks couldn’t risk firing on the Banditos for fear of hitting their captives. In response the soldiers from the People’s Federation of Texas had thrown down their firearms and drawn their knives. What ensued, was a violent and bloody close quarters skirmish that left one Roughneck dead and another without an eye. In addition only two of the nearly four dozen slaves who’d been captured survived the slaughter. Remembering the story Williams couldn’t help but agree with the sniper. “They don’t care if they live or die. They just like killing.”

As the Roughneck concluded his assessment, they, at last, reached the Sixty Six Outpost. What Williams had believed was a shack, was actually just a roof, held up by four wooden posts, and some sandbags. A group of six more People’s Federation of Texas soldiers, judging by their clothing and demeanor, were actively packing equipment into duffel bags. “Welcome back James,” one of the soldiers greet cavalierly as the Roughnecks approached. From the looks of things, the other PFT seemed to be breaking camp, getting ready to leave.

“Orders from the Magistrate, you and the Roughnecks are to get your asses to Flagstaff.” At first Williams thought he hadn’t heard the man correctly. Flagstaff was the Legion capital, the center of Cesar’s empire, back when Cesar had been alive. And now they were going to march straight there, after spending two days hoofing it back from their patrol in the west, they were going straight into the heart of Legion territory?

As James went to talk to the man giving out orders, the other Roughnecks moved under the shaded structure. They riffled canteens, stocked up on ammo, and worked the kinks out of their sore muscles. As Williams sought shade under the metal roofing, he noticed the caravan drivers and their mercenary talking with Linton. From the look on the private’s face, she didn’t like the way the conversation was going. No sooner did he move to find out what was going on than, both the caravan drivers and their mercenary turned heel and began to head back the way they’d come. “Where the hell are they going?” Williams asked Linton.

“Home,” the private responded, her tone matching Williams’s for surprise and general disgust. “They said they’ve had enough of the east and want to go back to Vegas.” As she said it, a thought occurred to Williams. They had encountered another society, a civilization that was interested in law and order enough to help a caravan against some raiders. Couldn’t they just go home now too? Did they need to remain here in the east? Couldn’t they let an ambassador of some kind come out here and do the rest?

“Roughnecks, listen up,” James ordered. Even though he wasn’t a Roughneck and their order might not even affect him in any way, Williams found himself listening to the lieutenant. “We have a change of plans. Apparently last night, while we were hoofing it across the Ninety Five, there was some kind of light show out at Flagstaff. Magistrate Tanner wants us to go have a look.” As he finished, several of the Roughnecks grimaced and spat. There were some grumblings, and the name “Tanner,” was mixed with “incompetent,” and “moron.” James held his hand up and waited for silence. “So load up and let’s get going.”

As the Roughnecks grabbed their gear, and the other P.F.T. soldiers began to break down camp, Williams wondered where he and the other two N.C.R. soldiers would be headed. “You three,” James said as he moved back under the roof. “Ya’ll have two options: you can either go with them,” the lieutenant explained nodding toward the departing caravan drivers. “Or you can come with me and my Roughnecks to Flagstaff.”

Williams looked at the men who were actively packing the outpost into storage crates. “No, they’re heading south to go Bandito hunting. They can’t afford to take anyone with them.” As he said it, James looked at Private Linton, almost as though she was the one they couldn’t bring along. “When we get done scouting Flagstaff we’ll be heading out to New Gettysburg. From there we should be able to get ya’ll in contact with a Magistrate.”

Once the lieutenant had finished Williams found himself looking at Meyers. There was no need to check with Linton, he’d have a harder time convincing her to leave than convincing her to go. In return, Meyers gave Williams and Linton a mildly annoyed look. “Like I’m going back with those [censored]s,” Meyers snapped gesturing to the swiftly retreating forms of the caravan drivers. Without another word to Linton or Williams, he turned to James. “If we’re heading into Legion territory, can you give us some weapons?” All three N.C.R. troopers nodded in agreement, their weapons having been destroyed in the Vulture attack.

“Sure,” James responded, moving to one of the crates. Once the N.C.R. soldiers had geared up, each selecting a weapon that suited their tastes in firepower, they began to travel east. As they did, William attempted to familiarize himself with his weapon. It was what the Roughnecks called a Little Gun, a short rifle with a collapsible stock and a clip fed semiautomatic firing mechanism. Linton had gone for a scoped bolt action rifle, something Williams had seen First Recon use back at Camp Forlorn Hope. Lastly, Meyers had gone for firepower with a light machinegun, a belt fed, fully automatic rifle that churned out a dozen 5.56mm rounds per second.

With a weapon firmly in his grasp again, Williams felt his odds improve. Even the sun sinking below the horizon and the knowledge that they were heading into the heart of enemy territory did little to dampen his relief at finally being rearmed. Even the Roughnecks didn’t seem overtly displeased at moving into Legion territory. If anything the further they encroached into what had been Cesar’s empire, the more they joked and laughed. That is, until they reached the first crucifix.

As a veteran of the war against the Legion, Williams had seen his share of crucifixions. Jackals, Rangers, N.C.R. soldiers, Great Khans, all of them had been tied to crosses and left to die. According to the rangers stationed in Camp Forlorn Hope, it could take days for a person to die on a cross, their own weight crushing their lungs until they suffocated to death.

The man hanging from this first crucifix was no raider, nor was he one of the P.F.T. soldiers. He was a Legionnaire. Unlike those who were crucified by the Legion, this man had been stabbed in the side, and as a result had expired hours before. As they moved past the body, the soldiers found that the long road to Flagstaff was lined with crucifixions.

From the slight incline where they stood, Williams could see all the way into flagstaff, where a looming fortification stood. “Holy [censored],” Linton said under her breath. Then the wind shifted and the putrid stench of rotting corpses suddenly filled the air. Williams gagged as the foul stench forced its way up his nostrils. It was as though someone was holding rancid meat and rotted flesh directly before him, forcing every breath to send fresh waves of the awful stench further into his brain and lungs.

As he desperately tried to control his breathing, someone pushed a handkerchief under his nose. Williams desperately pressed the cloth against his face, hoping it would block out some of the stench. Instead a new odor wafted from the handkerchief, a cross between Honey Mesquite Pods and Coyote Tobacco Chew. When he turned, Williams found that the Roughnecks all wore similar face coverings and had given both Meyers and Linton something to mask the overwhelming stench of hundreds of rotting corpses. “I don’t think we have to worry about the Legion in Flagstaff anymore.”

Can't keep up anymore. headache everytime *P. You shouold break the text up. it'll keep the thread more alive../.

ugh my eyes's they hurt :brokencomputer: :brokencomputer:

Anyway I read It all, and job well done. You know your story is good when I read the chapters and my eye's burn, my head throbs. But I stuck in there till the end becouse that's how much I like the story...

Do you mean make the paragraphs shorter or break it up into multiple posts?

I believe what he's getting at is that you should break up the blocks of text more.

However, I personally don't have a problem with it, but people around here get fidgety real quick when they see a block of text.

I think he's referring to breaking up the paragraphs. Also, I think it's writing convention for spoken parts, i.e. stuff in quotation marks, to start its own paragraph, but with some exceptions, i.e. continuing a train of though.

Overall, very entertaining story. A most intriguing plot. I also like the idea of the Crusaders' combo sword-plasma gun weapon.

Went back and split a few of the paragraphs. Hope that makes it a little easier to read. From here on out, I'll try to keep the paragraphs a little shorter.

mULTIPLE POSTS IN WHAT i MEAN. tAKE ONE OF YOUR LONGER POSTS. tHEY LOOK LIKE THEY CAN BE BROKEN INTO TWO POSTS INSTEAD OF ONE LONG ONE.

Oh sorry hehe i had cap locks on without knowing. Whoops

I disagree, I like longer posts, but really it's opinionated. Though honestly I don't see a good reason to split up the posts that won't mess up the flow he's got going.

And I'd have to agree with starting new paragraphs when it comes to dialogue, it makes is so much easier to read when your staring at a computer screen.

And here's your standard issue: Good Job. Cause it really is.

Part 5: Banditos (1 of 2)

Flagstaff

Despite the obvious fact that there were no surviving Legion soldiers in the small field of crucified bodies surrounding Flagstaff, James insisted that they keep a low profile while en route to the city itself. To do this the band of soldiers moved off the road and into the foothills that surrounded the city. As they moved further from the road, and the stench of death became merely a constant reminder of the hundreds of dead bodies to the north of their position, Williams removed the mask James had given him.

Every few moments Charley would break off from the group, march up the nearest of the foothills and peak over the edge. After five or six of these maneuvers, he came back and nodded to James. At that point the party of soldiers stopped, and James asked for a situation report. “City’s completely cleaned out, except for a small group still right in the center of town. I couldn’t get an eye on them, but they looked like raiders.”

With a curse, James climbed the short hill to look over the edge, using Charley’s scoped rifle to get a better look at Flagstaff. After a moment he cursed again before waving at the other to join him.

“Looks like Cesar moved out, and the Banditos moved in,” James explained, glancing at Linton. As Williams looked at each Roughneck in turn, he found that all of them were either staring at the only woman in their group, or avoiding looking at her altogether.

Linton evidently noticed the same thing. “Okay, what is it about me and the Bandito, that makes all of you turn pale?” Now that she mentioned it, Williams remembered similar looks and glances whenever the Roughnecks had mentioned Banditos before. And James had done the same thing when he had told them they couldn’t go with the other group of People’s Federation of Texas soldiers. He and the Roughnecks had looked directly at Linton, as though she, an outsider from almost halfway across the continent was significant in dealing with Banditos.

“Look, Banditos are the worst scum in the wasteland. They will always try to take women alive if they can.” As James beat around the bush, Williams noticed a look of disgust pass between the Roughnecks, like they had swallowed something they’d rather spit up, but at the same time didn’t want to be rude in front of the N.C.R. soldiers, Linton more than the others.

“It’s how they keep their numbers so high.” Either Private Linton didn’t understand or she wanted the lieutenant to say what she must have thought he was implying. “We’ve heard stories from other militia groups that they’ve found camps where women are kept like…” James stopped like he was having a hard time completing his sentence without being vulgar. “…Where women are kept as breeding stock.” The lieutenant looked about as comfortable saying it as Linton looked about hearing it.

“Here’s the plan,” James said after a long breath, “Linton and Charley will stay up here and cover our asses, while the rest of us go down there and set up a kill zone. We lure them in, and wipe them out. As long as we force them to play by our rules we should be able to pick them off one at a time. If it comes down to a close quarters fight we’re in deep [censored]. Also, I should warn you, the Banditos have their own language. It’s some kind of mix between Spanish and gibberish. They like to use it to confuse their enemies.”

With the plan laid out, James led Williams and the other toward the ruins of Flagstaff. While the city had most likely once been fairly large, between the nuclear war and the Legion it had been reduced to little more than a few freestanding structures and one large building that dominated the area. It looked to Williams as if it had once been a school of some kind, but had since been reduced to one large roofless arcade. In the center of the arcade was a large open plaza, where a large bonfire burned. Opposite their vantage point was what Williams assumed must have been Cesar’s throne, a large circular building that seemed to loom over the area.

Around the bonfire Williams could see at least two dozen men, all of them moving with the grace of drunks. By the time they had moved through the arcade, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon completely, leaving only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate the area. The ruins only served to shade the encroaching soldiers as they neared the campfire.

Part 5: Banditos (2 of 2)

Silently, James signaled his Roughnecks into position. Each man moved into one of the half ruined structures, each one choosing a highpoint to fire on the Banditos. From the way the men around the campfire moved, Williams couldn’t see how wiping them out would be a problem. He’d fought against the occasional Fiend back in the Mojave, and that had been easy. As long as they didn’t rush him all at once, he could pick off Fiends all day.

Holding up three fingers, the Roughneck lieutenant counted down. At one all seven men opened fire at once. While Williams’s Little Gun didn’t pack the same punch as his Service Rifle, it made a happy crack as it sent a round downrange. In the space of moments six of the Banditos had been struck down, and another four had been wounded.

One of the Banditos jumped to his feet and shouted a string of words Williams couldn’t understand. In an instant the Banditos turned from a bunch of drunks having a party into a pack of killers. Rather than rush at Williams and the others, the raiders turned their heel and ran into the surrounding ruins. Even with the sudden change in pace, the Roughnecks and N.C.R. troops had managed to thin the Banditos’ ranks. Williams did a quick count and saw at least a baker’s dozen of dead bodies lying in the plaza.

“[censored]!” James shouted loudly. Williams didn’t need an explanation. The Banditos had just changed the rules, forcing the soldiers to fight them in the narrow alleys of the surrounding ruins. “Move into the plaza, maybe we can lure them back out!”

Keeping his rifle pressed against his shoulder, Williams followed the others toward the still raging bonfire. The shadows that had worked toward their advantage before, now served to blind them against their enemies. The surrounding buildings offered no clues as to the whereabouts of the Banditos.

Before anyone could come up with a plan, a horrified scream broke the silence. Turning, Williams thought it sounded like it came from within the large building. Had it been one of their snipers? Williams looked at the ridge where Linton and Charley had posted themselves, but he didn’t remember seeing any muzzle flashes in their direction, nor did he hear the echoing boom of a gunshot.

“What the hell was that?” James asked, voicing Williams’s thoughts. A moment later, another scream echoed through the area, this one starting as a long wail, only to be abruptly cut off. As the roughnecks and N.C.R. troopers waited around the fire, not wanting to move or stay, but unsure which to act on, the sounds of brief, whispering scuffles filled the area. Williams was suddenly hit by a terrifying thought: what if whoever killed the Legion had decided to wait around and ambush whoever came down the road next.

As his hand tightened on his weapon hard enough to make his knuckles creak, a form materialized from one of the alleys. At first Williams had thought it would be a Deathclaw, or maybe some Legion remnant, coming to them to seek vengeance. In the end, it was only a Bandito. And this Bandito was in no condition to be any threat to either him or the other soldiers at his back. The raider was covered from head to toe in gashes and cuts, the most prominent of which ran from his collar bone down to his waist. Blood trickled down his arms to spatter against the ground.

At last, the Bandito tried to take a step and his legs gave out from under him, sending him to the ground with a hollow thump. Williams turned to James, hoping to find some explanation, but he only found his own expression of confusion mirrored by the other man.

With a shrill war cry, another Bandito rushed from the circular building, a machete held high as he rushed toward the group of soldiers. Before any of them could open fire, a tomahawk slammed into the man’s neck, sending him crashing to the ground. For several long moments Williams thought he would never truly understand what had transpired in Flagstaff. Then, with all the noise of a church mouse, a man dressed in dessert brown moved from the shadows.

From his apparel, Williams felt fairly certain that the man did not belong to the People’s Federation of Texas. The man wore a tanned leather jacket over a slightly darker brown jumpsuit. Strapped to one thigh was the strangest weapon Williams had ever seen, a massive revolver that almost looked like it was built upside down. As the man knelt to retrieve his tomahawk, Williams spotted a large knife tucked into his belt, something akin to what a tribal might use.

“James,” the stranger said with a mocking tone of arrogance. Williams watched James’s face turn from surprise to relief. Whoever the newcomer was at least James thought he wasn’t an enemy. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to go hunting raiders in the dark?”